The Darkness Within

Chapter Six

His hand intercepts mine with blurring speed, and then smashes my wrist into the table hard enough to force me to release the knife. I hiss at the burst of pain, and my whole body freezes at the look Sergei's giving me. Like he's glad I just tried to stab him.

Mortification of my actions and fear of what will follow wars inside of me, making the blood drain from my face. "And there you'd almost forgone a punishment," he says, tutting disappointedly.

I swallow audibly, eyes flicking around the room. It's possible that I was wrong, overestimating my potential value to Sergei, and just bought myself a one-way ticket to the afterlife. That might be better than the reprimand he'd give me if he really is intending to groom me.

How did this happen? The difference a day can make is comically astronomical. Yesterday, in America, I was wrapping up Sergei's case. Today, across the world in Russia, I'm stuck under Sergei's thumb. Subject to his mercy. I don't think he had much to begin with, and even if he did, I just burned it all away.

I don't even speak—I'm frozen in anticipatory fear. Sergei doesn't leave me to stew for long, instead, he stands, hauls me over his shoulder, and walks off. For a moment his actions stun me into stillness, but then I start to squirm.

"Put me down!" I demand, indignant as to his handling of me.

I gasp when his hand comes down on my ass hard enough to sting, even through the materials of the dress. "Don't struggle," he says. "Don't make this even harder on yourself."

His tone sounds like the stern yet subdued one used when reprimanding a child.

I stop struggling at both the warning and the stinging on my ass. Watching our surroundings change as he moves with remarkable ease, I whisper, "What are you going to do to me?"

He lets out a grunt that almost sounds bemused. "Punish you. Don't worry—as it's your first one, I won't go too hard on you."

We probably have vastly different definitions of too hard, so his words don't bring any comfort. Him taking me to my room, shutting the door, and then dropping me on the bed doesn't, either. Is he going to rape me?

"Stay there," he says, his tone dangerous. "If you move even an inch, you'll sincerely regret it."

He storms out of the room, and his warning is enough to keep me still. I've never truly experienced physical pain. I've had a few broken bones, sprained ankles and wrists, but I've never been carved up or tortured. If that's what he's about to do, I'm in no way prepared to deal with it.

When he returns only minutes later, I'm still in the same position on the bed, propped on my elbows, and avidly working not to tremble. Being faced with the Bratva boss of bosses, right after I swung a knife at him, is not an enjoyable predicament. When I see him discreetly holding a syringe in one of his hands, I'm broken out of my frozen terror. Getting drugged yesterday took away all of my control, and I can't stand not being in control.

I barely scramble back an inch before Sergei reaches the bed, clamps his hand around my ankle, and drags my body towards him. Batting away my hands he sticks the needle directly into my neck, and I wince at the sting. But that momentary pain is nothing compared to feeling every muscle in my body begin to relax.

This isn't like yesterday—when I grew drowsy before passing out. My mind remains perfectly alert and aware, but it somehow disconnects from my body. I go lax on the bed, and no amount of attempting to force my muscles to cooperate garners results.

Sergei looks like he's luxuriating in my helplessness and slowly growing panic. "I don't always use rope or other such restraints to keep people still," he murmurs, hand landing on my waist as his eyes roam my body. "Muscle relaxants are sometimes more effective. It's infuriating to be aware, but unresponsive, isn't it?" he asks me.

Yes, it very much is. For someone who's too emotionally detached to feel much most of the time, my feelings have been on a goddamn rollercoaster for the last day.

"I've been told that, for some, this drug heightens sensations," he purrs, leaning forward and using both hands to roll me onto my stomach. I glare at the bedspread, powerless to stop him as he slowly lowers the zipper of my dress, before pushing the material off of me. When I'm left in a lacey black thong and bra, he lets out an appreciative whistle.

Tears spark in my eyes when one of his hands travel over my ass, rubbing each cheek, because I can't even twitch a muscle to deter him. When his hand claps down on one ass cheek, it draws a yelp out of me, proving that I can still make noise. He smacks the other cheek just as hard. He goes back and forward...again, and again, and again, until my entire ass is throbbing and stinging, and tears of pain have started to travel down my face.

"Next time I'll make sure you can still speak, to beg me to stop," he says conversationally, pausing to rub my ass again. Even the gentle gesture still hurts—it feels like a cheese grater to raw flesh. "Have you had enough?"

I let out a grunt that I hope sounds like an affirmative.

"Your pale skin reddens so beautifully," he murmurs, one of his fingers hooking under the gusset of my panties, and when he strokes along my slit, I become aware of wetness. Did this turn me on? No, it couldn't have. It hurt to the point that I was in tears; how could I enjoy something like that?

Sergei, far from being concerned at the discovery, lets out a delighted laugh, stroking my slit again. "Now this is unexpected," he says on a chuckle. "A most welcomed surprise."

I gasp when his finger travels farther to briefly rub along my clit, before dipping to my entrance. He repeats the pattern, and to my mortification, I get even more wet. If I could speak I would be demanding that he stop, but I'm incapable of doing so. And for all intents and purposes my body might as well be giving him a green fucking light.

I squeeze my eyes shut when he starts to push a finger inside of me. He's the first person, outside of myself, to have ever done that. And he realizes it—I can tell by his stuttered breath and following groan.

"Kira, you're twenty four and gorgeous. How have you not ever...?" He exhales deeply, rubbing his finger over my maidenhead almost gently. "I suppose it makes sense," he mutters. "You speak ten languages. Got through school in a fraction of the normal time. When would you have had time to indulge in carnal pleasures?"

I nearly sob in relief when he pulls his finger out and flips me over, but it's only worse because now I stare into his face—into those orbs that burn with intensity. "I'd wager no one's ever even caught your interest before," he goes on, climbing over me to straddle my waist. I'd grimace at the feeling of the bedsheets against my ass—even silk is unpleasant—if I could.

"I wonder if I might have caught your attention," he purrs. For once, I thank the muscle relaxant, because it prevents me from making any facial expression to give myself away.

I felt something towards Sergei when I first saw him, granted, some sort of intrigue—but it went away as I literally got into his mind and analyzed him.

He rubs his thumb over my bottom lip, looking almost entranced with me.

After several moments he pulls away, sliding off me and standing up, walking towards the door. Is he just going to leave me here like this? Helpless? Unable to move?

Opening the door, he casts a glance to me. "You won't stay innocent for long, Kira." With that vow, he leaves.

A/N

40 votes, 15 comments (preferably from different people) for chapter seven.

I'm. In. Love. With. These. Characters. Writing this book is honestly becoming my favorite pastime. Kira and Sergei are just...yeah, Kira and Sergei. Enough said. 

Stay safe

xx

Rose